


Drawn to Flame

by Mina Lightstar (ukefied)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:52:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukefied/pseuds/Mina%20Lightstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After half a century, the Mothman is back in West Virginia.  Dean thinks it’s only the coolest hunt ever, Sam is a little more concerned about hiking through the TNT Area — and Bela’s eye may be on the prize, but she never can resist getting one up on Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drawn to Flame

**Author's Note:**

> Mini-bang for spn_gen_bigbang. Season 3, vaguely between 3x08 and 3x10. Please note that Johnny Winsley is a fictional character and is not related to the actual caretaker of the Mothman Museum. ; )
> 
> Many, many thanks to [eyestoowide](http://eyestoowide.livejournal.com/50496.html) for her amazing art. Thanks to rince1wind for the beta and measuringlife for audiencing.

  


  
Story by [Mina Lightstar](http://ukefied.dreamwidth.org) & Artwork by [eyestoowide](http://eyestoowide.livejournal.com)

Christmas wasn’t a bust, exactly; it was the closest thing to an actual Christmas the Winchesters have ever had. They got smashed on eggnog, watched the game, and most importantly, they didn’t bring up Dean’s deal. On the other hand, Christmas has opened up a whole host of issues neither of them wants to face. Dean will be dead inside a year and Sam can’t — he _can’t._ He’s been researching at all hours of the night, trying to be discreet, trying to save his brother’s life while Dean sleeps, content to die so Sam can live.

The subject is taboo. This has been established many times, although there are moments where Sam snaps and Dean’s resignation becomes a point of contention. Last night, for instance.

Last night got _ugly._

Sam sips his coffee and surfs the Web for weirdness. Dean wants to work, wants to drag as many monsters as he can to Hell with him, and that’s a dying wish Sam can get behind. It’ll be a peace offering, an apology for what he said last night. On the bed near the door, Dean sleeps on, though it won’t be long before the smell of coffee and donuts — more peace offerings — rouse him.

And then Sam finds _it._ He’s grinning broadly by the time he finishes reading, glancing from the screen to Dean, willing his brother to wake up.

  


“Say that again,” Dean demands, eyebrow quirking upward.

Sam waits until his brother puts his coffee down before repeating it. “Mothman.”

Now that’s he’s sure he heard correctly, both of Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “No fucking way,” he says.

Sam grins. _Hook, line, and sinker._ “I’m completely serious. No real sign of it for forty years, and suddenly it starts making appearances?” He turns his laptop around so Dean can see the fruits of his labor.

“Dude, is that a statue of it?” Dean leans forward on the table, scrutinizing the picture. “That is one fugly son of a bitch.”

Dean’s right. The Mothman stands roughly seven feet tall, with whitish-silver skin and an impressive wingspan. As its name suggests, it has the body of a man, although its extremities are claws and its head is that of an insect’s. Its eyes are a deep red, and judging from eyewitness accounts, look kind of like reflectors.

“It first appeared in Mason County in West Virginia — some place called Point Pleasant.” Sam takes the computer back so he can scroll through the information. “Its appearance coincided with the Silver Bridge collapse, and locals started seeing it flying around. Didn’t attack anyone, although it’s looking like that may be changing.”

“Because of us?” Dean ventures. “When the gate opened and all those demons escaped … shit’s been getting weird ever since then, you know? Everything’s riled up.”

“We didn’t open the gate,” Sam points out, not for the first time. It makes him irrationally angry, the fact that he has to remind Dean that this isn’t his fault.

His brother ignores that. “So, what? It’s started attacking people?”

“Seems to be. Kidnapping, too. One guy, John Weyne—”

“Seriously?”

“—Got scratched up pretty bad but got away. He claims the Mothman carried off his friend, Paul Jones, who hasn’t been seen since.”

Dean shakes his head. “What would a Mothman need a person for? Wouldn’t it eat, like, t-shirts or something?” Sam gives him a look. “What?”

“Anyway,” Sam says. “I think it’s worth checking out. You?”

“Hell, yes!” Dean looks way too excited about a monster terrorizing a small town. “Sammy, it’s only the coolest hunt _ever._ ”

It’s Sam’s turn to shake his head, rolling his eyes. “All right, then. Let’s hit the road.”

  


For all its purported supernatural activity, Point Pleasant is a quiet, sleepy town. A good candidate for Everytown, America, Sam thinks, huddling further into his jacket. It’s still a little chilly at this time of year, and standing around gawking at Mothman’s likeness isn’t making him any warmer.

Mothman is even fuglier up close. If the statue is accurately based on eyewitness accounts, then they’re looking at a huge, muscular man/insect hybrid. He eyes the enormous claws on the tips of Mothman’s birdlike toes and swallows. Those would leave a mark.

“I don’t get it, Sammy,” Dean admits, gesturing to the statue. “If some freak like this swooped into your town, totaled your bridge, and terrorized your locals, why would you become its biggest fan?”

Sam looks the statue up and down, wondering if the Mothman is really that big in real life. “Maybe it attracts a lot of tourists,” he offers. Point Pleasant does seem to be doing fairly well for itself. Even the motel they’re staying in is pretty nice, all things considered.

“I think the museum is pushing it,” Dean replies, gesturing vaguely in its direction. “Should we start there?”

Sam takes one last look at the statue; its eyes are really unsettling. “Seems like a good idea.”

  


“‘The World’s Only Mothman Museum,’” Dean reads from the bench, neck craned backwards. “Thank god for that.”

“Be nice,” Sam chuckles, chugging the rest of his coffee and tossing it in the trash.

“‘Mothman Lives,’” his brother goes on. “Huh. Think that banner was there before the latest sightings?”

“Dunno.”

“Must be pretty proud of themselves now, then,” Dean decides, standing up. “They’re all ‘called it!’ and whatnot.”

“Whatever’s really out there,” Sam says, brushing off his jeans, “I’m sure it isn’t a giant moth-man. Mothman’s like Bigfoot, right? Total fabrication.”

Dean has sobered up after the initial excitement of the hunt. “Mothman’s too awesome to be real,” he admits. “But whatever it is has got some of these townsfolk all riled up.”

“After you.” Sam gestures to the door. “Let’s get to the bottom of this.”

Dean gives him a dubious look, but pushes the door open. Sam follows, inhaling the museum’s scent. It’s musty and well worn; a building in which little has changed over the years. Factoids and memorabilia decorate the walls, and Dean immediately gravitates toward the long rows of clothing racks.

“Dude,” his brother chokes out, waving him over. He pulls an orange t-shirt off the rack and presses it against his chest. “What do you think?”

Sam quirks an eyebrow. “I think it looks like an old horror movie poster.”

“Right?” Dean turns the shirt over, revealing the text _Official Government Mothman Search Team_. “Sounds like us, huh?” he quips, amused.

“May I help you, gentlemen?”

The voice comes from behind Sam. Dean has the grace to look minutely guilty before hanging the shirt back up. Sam winces in sympathy before turning around to address what must be the caretaker. “Hi there. We were just looking around.”

The man looks to be in his mid-forties, chestnut hair graying at the temples. He’s wearing dress pants, a crisp white dress shirt, and a navy sports jacket. “Interested in Mothman, are you?” he inquires wryly.

“Very,” Dean insists. They’d rehearsed this part already.

“We’re actually in town because of the rumors it was back,” Sam adds.

The older man chuckles. “You wouldn’t be the first. I’m John Winsley, the caretaker here.”

“Nice to meet you.” Sam smiles, turning on the charm. “Listen, the museum is great and all, but we’re, uh, what you’d call _serious_ enthusiasts.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Is that right?”

Dean steps closer, dropping his voice even though the place is mostly deserted. “Yeah, if we wanted to actually catch a glimpse of this thing, where might we go?”

“You want to _find_ Mothman?” John asks, blinking.

“Yeah,” Dean says again, gauging the caretaker’s reaction. “Why, what’s wrong?”

John waves his hand. “Well, it’s just that … surely a pair of ‘serious’ enthusiasts would be aware of the disappearances and attacks?” He gives them a measuring look. “Running after Mothman at times like this just seems rather reckless, don’t you think?”

“Have there been many disappearances?” Sam wants to know. “We heard about John Weyne and his friend.”

“Tragic,” John Winsley nods. “Not the only case, though. John and Paul’s unfortunate encounter was merely the first attack with survivors claiming to have seen Mothman. Others have been vanishing over the past couple of weeks, but as to what’s responsible for them … well, no one can say at this moment.”

Sam and Dean exchange glances. “How many others have gone missing?” his brother asks.

John shifts from one foot to the other, clearly a little uncomfortable to be talking about it. “There was Mary Worthing, who vanished about two weeks ago. And, er,” he shrugs, looking sheepish, “I’m afraid I can’t remember the other fellow’s name. Erik, maybe? Regardless, that’s three incidents over the span of a few weeks.”

“And Mothman’s only been sighted once,” Sam confirms.

John gives them another embarrassed shrug. “Well, not exactly. Since Weyne’s encounter, locals have been whispering about seeing Mothman gliding about at night.”

“Really?” Dean muses. “Like, actual sightings? Or ‘people getting too excited and making mountains out of molehills’ kind of sightings?”

The caretaker gives him a wan smile. “Well now, that’s just the thing, isn’t it? Mothman hasn’t returned in half a century. People start disappearing, others start seeing huge cranes soaring through the night sky … some say they can hear Mothman keening. Who even knows?”

“But you think Mothman is still out there,” Dean figures.

“Of course it’s out there — somewhere. But as I’m sure you understand, there’s a lot of excitement about the new sightings. It’s the kind of thing that attracts all sorts of young, amateur ghost-hunters.” He gives them a pointed look.

“Heh, yeah,” Sam plays it off, rubbing the back of his head. “I take it you’ve had more visitors like us?”

“A couple, yes.” John meets Sam’s eyes. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told them: be careful — especially if you go poking around the TNT Area. Obviously I can’t stop you from wanting to find Mothman, and I suppose I can imagine why you’d want to. But you watch yourselves. Whatever’s happening around here lately is no laughing matter.”

“Of course not, sir,” Sam agrees, placatingly. “Thank you so much for your help. We’ll be careful.”

“Real careful,” Dean adds. “We just want to get some photos of the guy,” he lies through his teeth. “Just to prove he exists once and for all.”

John gives each of them another calculating look. “Well then, if that’s all…” he gestures vaguely to the door. “We’re closing soon.”

  


“So,” Sam says, picking at a rogue piece of lettuce from his sub, “we head to the TNT Area tonight?”

“Might as well,” Dean replies around a mouthful of his steak-n-cheese. “If it only comes out at night, sticking close to its home-base is the best chance we’ve got to find it. No sense chasing it around town,” he adds, taking another bite.

Sam kicks at him under the table. “Finish what’s in your mouth before shoveling more in.”

Dean kicks him back. “Then don’t ask me questions while I’m chewing. Why do they call it the TNT Area, anyway?”

Sam kicks him again, just because. “It’s the McClintic Wildlife Management Area, technically. There’s a bunch of mounds there—”

“Heh.” Dean smirks. “Mound.”

“Oh, grow up. The mounds were made to house loads of explosives back in the day,” Sam rattles off from memory. “In fact, there are still some stored around there — in pretty dangerous condition, actually. I guess some of them could go off at any time.”

“Oh yeah, that sounds like fun,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. “So is it closed off?”

“It’s some kind of government nature preserve, I think.” Sam sips his soda. “You can go fishing and stuff there.”

“Fishing for dynamite?”

“But near as I can tell, it isn’t really closed off. People tend to keep away from it, I suppose.”

Dean narrows his eyes with suspicion. “You’re doing an awful lot of thinking and supposing. Are we going to step on a landmine over there, or what?”

“No, Dean, I don’t think there are landmines.”

“There’s that word again.”

“There are no landmines, okay?” Sam snaps. “Just barrels of volatile explosives lying around.”

“Well,” Dean leans back in his seat, “now I feel better.”

Sam has a colorful retort on the tip of his tongue when the guy sitting in the booth in front of Dean twists around. He looks fairly young — maybe the tail-end of his teens — and he fixes Sam with a penetrating gaze.

“You guys headed to the TNT Area?” he asks, right next to Dean’s head.

His brother scoots over a little, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Mothman enthusiasts,” he explains.

“Yeah, I figured. Look, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop and all, but I just want to tell you to be careful.”

Sam exchanges a glance with Dean. “Why, has something happened?”

The kid looks a little distraught, like he’s barely keeping it together. “It’s just, my neighbors are big into the paranormal thing. I heard them talking about snooping around the TNT Area yesterday, and they haven’t come back.”

“Whoa,” Dean breathes. “They went missing yesterday?”

“Yeah, but they live on their own,” the kid explains. “And it’s not unusual for them to pack up and head out to hike for a weekend or something.” His mouth works. “Look, I don’t really know them or anything; we’re neighbors, not friends. I just, you know, have a bad feeling.”

“They went to the TNT Area?” Sam asks.

“I assume so, yeah.” He shifts in his seat. “But like I said, it’s not weird for them to take off on a wacky nature-hike thing, or a ghost-hunting thing. I just can’t shake the feeling that something’s happened to them.”

“What’re their names?” Dean wants to know.

“Phil and Dave. Dunno their last names.”

“If we see them, we’ll let them know you’re worried.”

“Uh … thanks.” He leans more over the booth so he can get a better look at Dean. “But I mean it, man: be careful out there.”

“Careful is my middle name,” Dean assures him with a cocky grin.

  


They leave Lowes Motor Inn around midnight. Point Pleasant is quiet; the Impala’s engine seems strikingly loud. They pull out of the motel’s driveway and head for the TNT Area.

“We may have a small batch of amateurs running around with us,” Dean mutters.

“I hope not,” Sam replies. “Whatever _is_ out there is dangerous, and the last thing we need is to have to keep an eye on extras.”

Dean’s reply is cut off when the car is rocked violently by a gust of wind. He concentrates on keeping the wheel steady.

“What the hell was that?” Sam demands, turning to stare at his brother. “It’s not even windy.”

Dean points. “ _That_ was that!”

Sam faces front and sees a huge flying shadow gliding down. It catches the Impala’s headlights and Sam sees white — and red.

“Shit!”

He’s not sure which of them yelled. Dean’s the one who reacts, pulling onto the shoulder to avoid a head-on collision with whatever the hell that was. Once stopped, his brother kills the engine and jumps out of the car. Sam follows, pulling out his gun and flicking the safety off.

“Where is it?” Dean demands, spinning around in a quick circle. “Attack my car,” he adds bitterly.

Sam turns in a slower circle, searching for monstrous shadows in the night sky. The lore claims Mothman’s flight is soundless, like a real moth’s. “Was that what I think it was?”

He gets his answer when it comes around again. It’s not silent by any means — Sam can hear the flapping when it gets close. Still, he barely has time to turn towards it before three hundred pounds wing him, knocking him off his feet. He hits the ground hard next to the Impala, smacking the back of his head against the gravel. The wold flashes out of existence….

 

He’s flat on his back, staring up at the sky. Damn it. Where—? He can hear Dean yelling for him, asking if he’s okay. He hears the Mothman snarling something intelligible. Sam tries turning his head; it’s like moving through water. He can’t see Dean’s feet under the Impala and can’t quell the panic that bubbles up his chest.

“Dean,” he tries to shout, but isn’t sure what actually comes out of his throat. _Time to get up,_ he urges himself. _Get UP!_

He rolls over, pushes himself to his hands and knees. His fingers grope around for his gun. He has to use the Impala as leverage to get to his feet. He does all this like a marionette, limbs moving with floppy, disconnected clumsiness. He blinks, double vision swirling into focus, and leans heavily on the trunk to stay upright. Mothman is just as huge as the statue claimed — easily over seven feet. Its facing away from Sam, hissing something that may or may not be a language. Sam watches its white leathery wings unfold and then its gone, a bullet into the sky. How can something so huge be so quick? Dean fires a couple of rounds into the darkness. Sam holds his breath.

Then he sees Dean go down. Mothman whizzes by, strikes like a viper, and his brother drops like a bird shot out of the sky. “Dean,” Sam tries again, voice hoarse but stronger. He struggles for a steady grip on his gun but his aim is shaky at best. _You have to move,_ the voice in his head orders him. It sounds like Dad. Sam grits his teeth and tells the dizziness and nausea to go to hell. He pushes away from the car, gaze focused on the crumpled heap of Dean on the ground.

He doesn’t even get to make the first step.

Mothman circles back around and, opting for the prey least likely to shoot at it, snatches Dean right off the ground. Instinctively, Sam raises the gun but it’s all for naught; Mothman’s too bloody fast and there’s a risk of shooting Dean. He can’t even tell if Dean’s moving, struggling, or just hanging lifeless in the creature’s grip.

Adrenaline kicks in, overriding everything else and before Sam notices, he’s chased Mothman a mile down the road. He’s still running when he realizes it’s pointless — the creature is long gone. Sam slows down, and once he stops running his legs give out. He sits in the middle of the old country road with his head in his hands, minus one brother and possibly up one concussion.

  


It only takes a few more minutes for Sam to mostly recover from the blow to the head. It’s a slow walk back to the Impala, but he gets stronger with every step — stronger, and angrier. He’s not letting Dean go to Hell, and he’s sure as shit not letting some urban legend freakshow be the one who stamps the ticket.

The Impala’s right where they left it. Dean left the keys in the ignition, too. Sam double-checks the area and, when he doesn’t find anything, assumes Dean still has his phone and weapons. _At least there’s that._

Sam climbs behind the wheel. Mothman must be taking its prey back to its nest in the TNT Area, and when Sam finds it, he is going to set the damn thing on fire.

 

The TNT Area isn’t very far away. Sam ends up parking outside a guardrail, prepared to keep going on foot. He pockets his knife, gun, and flare gun before killing the engine and climbing out. He wants to try calling Dean but doesn’t dare. If Mothman is around, it might get antagonized by either the ringtone or the vibration and his brother might pay for that.

He’s swinging one leg over the guardrail when the other car pulls up, shining spotlights on him. _Great,_ he thinks. _Now I’ll have to head them off._ This is just what he needs: amateur Scooby gangs moving in on his rescue mission.

But when the driver climbs out, Sam’s jaw drops. He doesn’t know many people — amateur or no — who show up on a hunt looking like they just came from Saks Fifth Avenue.

“Hello, darling,” Bela Talbot greets him, hands in her jacket pockets. “You would think, in a country this large, there would be less chance of us running into each other.”

Sam squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath. He doesn’t have time for this; he doesn’t have time for Bela on a _good_ day. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for the Mothman,” she replies easily, sauntering forward. “It’s back for the first time in forty years.” She quirks an eyebrow at him, lips tilting into a half-smile. “Hadn’t you heard?”

And he does not have time for this. Sam steps over the guardrail and heads into the undergrowth. After a moment, he can hear Bela following. Figures. “Why do you care about the Mothman?” he asks over his shoulder.

She catches up to him quickly enough, but has to walk fast in order to match his stride. “Its eyes are very valuable. Or so the Egyptian diplomat believes,” she adds, a touch smug. “I don’t much care either way, but the price is right.”

Sam makes a derisive noise, but can’t really bring himself to think much about Bela’s code of conduct. He scans the area as he marches, looking for any sign of Dean. The moon is nearly full so at least there is some natural light to see by. So far, nothing looks disturbed or out of the ordinary; it’s just your run-of-the-mill nature reserve. It’s also unnaturally quiet; the only sound is the undergrowth crunching beneath their boots. The minutes tick by.

“Where’s Dean?” Bela wonders aloud. “I’ve found myself missing his colorful commentary.”

“Mothman carried him off,” Sam replies shortly. “I’m trying to find him.” He swallows a lump in his throat. “If he’s even here.”

Say one thing for Bela Talbot: she is quick on the uptake. “Lost him to a butterfly, have you?” she muses, amused. “I’m sure he’s here. Logically, there’s no better place for Mothman to store its victims. It’s probably keeping them in one of the storage mounds; surely it must have figured out how to open the doors by now.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, stopping short. They’ve stumbled upon a conspicuous little hill. Sam makes a closer inspection; it’s one of the mounds. It doesn’t look very spacious, and when he tries yanking the door open he finds it’s been soldered shut. He sighs, frustrated. “Except there are dozens of these domes around here and god knows how long Mothman waits before eating the abductees.” He glances back at Bela.

She surprises him by spreading her hands and giving him a full-on devious smile. “Well then, we’d better get on with it. Shall we split up?”

“What’s the catch?” Sam asks, even though they both know he’s going to say yes.

She raises a finger. “Usually I wouldn’t waste my time collaborating, but I do love the idea of your brother being in my debt. So here’s my proposal: we find Dean, but the eyes are mine.” Her smile widens. “One priceless relic in exchange for one wise-cracking halfwit. Can’t ask for a better deal, can you?”

No, he really can’t. “You go left, I’ll go right. Call me at the first sign of Mothman, or when you find the right dome.”

“Fine. Take care, Samuel. One relic isn’t payment enough to rescue both of you,” she quips over her shoulder, already on her way.

Sam shakes his head and lets is slide. There’s more important things to worry about than bantering with Bela. He starts looking for the next mound.

  


When Mothman punched him in the head, Dean had blacked out — probably just for a minute or so. Consciousness had returned quickly enough, but only briefly, as it also came with confusion, malaise, and being aboard the Mothman Express. Like Dean didn’t hate flying as it was. He’d slipped in and out after that, because passing out was easier than coping with dangling from some giant insect’s feet. He’d roused again when Mothman manhandled him roughly with one strong arm, hauling open a heavy door with the other, but the head-rush was too much.

The smell finally wakes him for good. The tangy, metallic scent of blood mingled with the rancid stench of decomposing flesh. His first thought is, _I’m gonna hurl._ Then he promptly retches, trying to roll over so he doesn’t choke on it. He’s bound, can’t really move anything except his head. When it’s over, he flops back down, trying to edge away from the small puddle. He cringes; his head hurts like a bitch. Then he remembers Mothman. _I lost a fight against a giant insect._

It’s dark, and his eyes are still adjusting to the moonlight entering through a hole near the top of whatever this structure is, but Dean figures he’s in one of those mounds Sammy was talking about. The ground is cold and hard and Dean’s trussed up like a caterpillar in a cocoon. The silk is exceptionally sticky and Dean panics, struggling despite the pain in his head.

“You awake, man?” a weak voice ventures from somewhere to the left.

It sounds human; one of the missing persons? The frenzy drains, but Dean doesn’t stop working to loosen the cocoon. He has to try three times before his voice works. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Are you all right?” What a fucking question.

The other guy seems to think so, too. “Pretty good, considering a giant moth wants to have us for dinner.”

Dean blinks, thinking back. “Phil?” he tries.

“Dave. Phil’s, uh, asleep, I think. I hope.” Dave’s voice cracks. “He got cut up pretty bad. Think he has a fever, but I can’t … I don’t know how long we’ve been here, man. I don’t know if…”

“Hey,” Dean soothes, with a calm he doesn’t feel, “don’t worry. My brother’s looking for us. If anyone can get us out of this mess, he can.”

Dave gapes; Dean can’t see him, but he knows what gaping silence feels like. “And how is he going to do that?”

“He’s workin’ on it,” Dean assures him, shimmying in his bonds. The silk is strong enough, but obviously meant for weakened, docile prey that _haven’t_ managed to sneak Bowie knives onto their person.

“Workin’ on it,” Dave deadpans, tone tinged with hopelessness. “Right.”

“Trust me. How often does this thing come back?”

He can hear Dave shift in his own cocoon. “Hard to tell. I don’t know how long I’ve been here.”

“A day or so,” Dean informs him.

“Huh.” A pregnant pause. “There was — another guy. Before. You can … you can still smell ‘im.”

Oh. Paul Jones, Dean wagers. Or maybe one of the unexplained disappearances. Fuck.

“Mothman’s been, uh, pecking at him slowly,” Dave goes on, faltering. “And you can hear — see — bones. It’s been eating all kinds of people, man. It starves us, dries us out, and then it fucking _eats us._ ”

“I give monsters indigestion,” Dean replies, fingers straining to curl ‘round the hilt of his knife. When at last they find purchase, he sets about inching it out of his belt. “Soon as I get loose, I’m gonna give Mothman some serious food poisoning.” He jerks the blade free with satisfaction. “But like. The kind you get from a knife. Or … something. Whatever.”

“… Man, you must’ve hit your head really hard,” Dave says quietly. “It dragged you to its cave and wrapped you up like Thanksgiving dinner.”

“Minor setback,” Dean mutters, and his knife makes a satisfying tear in the cocoon. He cuts along the silk in record time, pulls the cocoon apart, rolls to his feet — and promptly throws up all over the floor again.

“Damn it,” he chokes out, hands braced on his knees. And now the closed, dark space smells like rotten flesh, blood, _and_ vomit. “Moved too soon, too fast,” he mumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You’re free?” Dave exclaims. He starts struggling with vigor. “Help me, man. Please, help me!”

“Okay.” Dean psyches himself up, and straightens more slowly this time. Still a bit woozy, but that’s cool. He finds Dave’s cocoon and cuts him loose, then the two of them ease the feverish Phil from his own prison.

“Phil,” Dave pleads, desperate. “Come on, wake up. Gimme a sign.” He cups the other man’s face with his own bloodied hands. “Hey.”

“It’s not that bad, I don’t think,” Dean hazards, looking at the congealed blood along the slice in Phil’s shoulder. “I mean, it’s not great, but it could be much worse.” He gives Dave a sidelong glance. “Maybe leave the monster-hunting to the professionals next time, huh?”

Phil’s eyelids flutter, but he doesn’t wake up. Dave strokes his face. “If he dies, I—”

“He’s not dead,” Dean interrupts. “No one’s dying. Come on.” Together, they haul Phil to his feet as gently as possible. Dave supports most of the weight, leaving Dean free to fumble for his phone and dial Sam.

His brother picks up on the first ring. _“Dean?!”_

“Still in one piece, Sammy.” Slowly, they make it to the door and Dean yanks it open with one powerful tug. Cool night air blows into the dome; a welcome breeze after the dank, putrid prison. “The other two are with me.”

_“Where are you?”_

Once outside, Dean looks skyward and tries to decipher the stars. “Uh … think I’m on the east side of things? We can’t stick around; Mothman could be crashing this party any minute.”

_“Hang tight, we aren’t far.”_

“We?”

Dave’s scream drowns out Sam’s answer. Dean drops his phone when he’s bowled over onto his back. Jesus Christ, this thing is a fucking ninja. His breath leaves his lungs in a whoosh and all this rattling _can’t_ be good for his head. Electric fire runs up from his right leg. He doesn’t have time for it. Reflex gets his hands braced against both top and bottom of a leathery jaw, keeping Mothman’s snapping teeth at bay. 

It’s ugly. Fuck, it’s _terrifying_ — like a human and a bug tried to make a vague approximation of something in between. Its hands are on his shoulders, trying to pin him. It’s fucking strong, and just as agitated. Dean can see the tufts of gray hair on its chest standing on end. It takes all Dean has to keep its mouth away. It’s panting, hot rancid breath hitting Dean’s face. He’s suddenly nauseous. He wants to turn his head away for fresh air but doesn’t dare. Mothman’s silver-white skin shimmers in the moonlight. It makes the reflective red eyes seem other-worldly. They don’t blink. Dean can see dozens of his own desperate reflections in those eyes. He tries pushing back — pushing Mothman off him — but the creature doesn’t budge. It’s furious. It roars in his face; the _stench._ Dean bites his lip so hard he tastes coppery blood.

Dean grunts when the claws dig into his shoulders. They twist in deep and it hurts like a bitch. “You are way uglier up close,” he spits, glaring up into those deep red eyes. “Get out of here!” he yells in Dave’s vague direction.

“I can’t just—”

“ _Go!_ ” Dean snaps, trying to get enough leverage to kick Mothman off him. It’s not working — the damn things’s too heavy, and pissed besides. Dean’s right leg isn’t cooperating, either. Every movement floods his nerves with sharp pain. His biceps are quivering with the effort of holding off the beast’s mouth, and the minute Mothman goes for Plan B (Evisceration Via Claws) he is in for a world of hurt.

And then the gunshots come.

  


After Dean’s line goes dead, Sam covers ground faster than he ever thought he could. He’s frantic with worry, and he’s pissed, and all he has are a vague direction and Bela’s assurances.

 _“I can hear them, Sam,”_ she’d said, and rattled off coordinates. Like he has time to stand around and look at coordinates. _“I’m almost there.”_ She’d actually sounded pretty harried herself. Sam couldn’t tell if she was genuinely worried about Dean, or her precious relic. He turns slightly and picks up speed again, heavy boots pounding the ground.

Turns out he isn’t far, though, and soon he can hear the commotion over the sound of his own rough breathing. He runs faster, legs pumping, praying for Dean to hold it off just a moment longer.

He stumbles onto the scene just when Bela fires four sure shots into Mothman’s wings. It stands up, lifting off of Dean, and Sam sees red. Nothing prepares him for the sheer unadulterated _fury_ he feels when he sees his brother’s weak attempts to crawl away. Mothman is fucking _dead._

Bela moves backwards, still firing, purposefully antagonizing. Sam’s moving before he realizes it, flare gun a familiar weight in his hand, and as soon as Mothman is clear of Dean, he fires.

Mothman goes up in flame like a regular insect hitting a bug zapper. The right wing ignites first and singes almost instantly to a crisp. The flames lick along Mothman’s flesh, blackening it, melting it off. A moment letter it’s engulfed. It lets loose a shrill keen. The shriek is otherworldly, but is swiftly drowned out by the roaring fire.

Sam leaves it to burn, pocketing the flare gun as he makes a break for Dean. His brother is sprawled where Mothman left him. Dean’s breathing heavily and his face is covered in a light sheen of sweat. He looks like he could be unconscious, but his green eyes snap open when Sam starts checking his vitals.

“Sammy,” he drawls, “perfect timing, as usual.”

Sam smiles down at him. He feels a literal flood of relief from head to toe, but doesn’t get to reply. The burnt husk that used to be Mothman falls to the ground, startling him. Bela moves in, stomping out dying flames with her boots.

“Your little stunt better not have cost me my end of the bargain,” Bela warns him, beating at the flames with her jacket. That coat probably cost more than Sam’s entire wardrobe, and she’s putting out a mutant moth with it. She must really want those eyes.

“If they’re half as resilient and priceless as your buyer thinks they are, you don’t have anything to worry about,” Sam tells her. He turns his attention back to Dean. His brother looks tired and roughed up, but otherwise seems fine.

“Just my leg,” Dean says. “And the wicked set of puncture wounds in my arms.” He makes an aborted attempt to rise. “And possibly some brain damage. How’d you find me?”

“We actually have Bela to thank for that,” Sam supplies, and gives a wan smile when Dean freezes in the middle of pushing himself up. “Yeah, I know,” he sympathizes, helping his brother to a sitting position. “Don’t worry, it was an even trade.”

“Even trade?” Now that he’s upright, Dean looks a little wobbly. Sam puts an arm around his shoulders to steady him. “What do you mean, even trade?”

“Forget it,” Sam insists. “It wasn’t worth anything.” _It wasn’t worth you._

“Dave?” Dean calls suddenly. Sam looks around, figuring there must have been another survivor. “Dave?” Dean tries again, louder.

“Over here,” comes the fragile reply. Sam discerns it’s coming from behind a clump of trees close by. He makes sure Dean is steady and goes to check it out. He finds the man and his friend — Paul? Phil? — huddled together in the bushes. When Dave’s eyes meet Sam’s, he stammers, “I-I couldn’t carry him far. I—”

“It’s fine,” Sam soothes, bending over to help get both Dave and the other guy to their unsteady feet. “Let’s get out of here.” It’s actually good that they didn’t get far; at least now everyone is together.

When they reach the dome, Sam hears Dave inhale sharply. Then he sees why: Mothman is a charred, shrunken corpse upon the grass. Its wings disintegrated in the fire, leaving behind a creepy skeletal being. And then there’s the little matter of its eyes having been gouged out. Bela works fast, Sam thinks.

The thief is helping Dean stand upright, pulling one of his arms around her shoulders and wrapping her free arm about his waist. She doesn’t take no for an answer, shutting down his feeble protests and pulling him flush against her side. She leans up and murmurs something in his ear that makes him freeze up. By the time Sam and Dave hobble over, his brother is staring at Bela like she’s a viper.

“Shut _up,_ ” Dean hisses at her. “It was _gigantic._ ”

Bela chuckles, but doesn’t retort.

“You got what you came for?” Sam asks her, ignoring Dean’s blatant HELP ME expression.

Bela smirks and juts her hip forward a little, indicating her pocket. “My client will be satisfied, thanks so much. Turns out the eyes are quite resilient, after all. Like nigh-indestructible rubies.” She inclines her head, gesturing to the other two men. “And they are…?”

“Missing hunters,” Dean supplies, sounding weary. “We should get them to a hospital. How you doing there, Dave?”

“Fine,” Dave replies, shifting his hold on his half-conscious friend. “Can we get the hell out of here now?”

“I’m all for that,” Sam says, and begins steering his two charges around.

“What about Mothman?” Bela wonders, glancing back at the burnt corpse.

“Let the authorities worry about it,” Dean dismisses. “Better yet, I hope some amateur like Phil or Dave finds it, and brings it back to the museum. It’ll drive the town nuts.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to let the town keep its urban legend,” Sam says. After a moment, he adds, “Thanks for your help, Bela. We’re even.”

“No, we aren’t.” Startled, Sam looks over his shoulder at her. There’s that wicked smile again. “The deal was I get the eyes, and we rescue your brother. You’re not out of the woods yet, sweetie,” she adds to Dean. “I’ll walk you to your car, in case there are any other giant butterflies out there.”

“I can walk,” Dean protests, but allows her to help him shuffle forward. “And goddamn it, you _saw_ the size of that thing!”

“And I’m going to bring this up as often as possible the next few weeks,” Bela adds with a laugh.

Sam shakes his head.

  


It’s a long, slow hike back to the cars, but everyone makes it in one piece. After securing the injured in the Impala, Bela tosses her ruined jacket into her passenger’s side before turning back to Sam. “Well, this wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” she says. “All the same, let’s not do it again.”

Sam’s gaze flickers to Dave and Phil in the backseat. The former is cradling the latter and they should really get moving. “Thanks again, Bela. I know you were just doing it for money, but thanks.”

“I wasn’t _just_ doing it for money,” she assures him, coming close enough to reach in the passenger window and pat Dean’s cheek. Sam’s brother recoils with a sneer; Bela only laughs. “I did it so I can call him every day and remind him who rescued him from a giant insect.”

“I won’t answer,” Dean growls.

“Well,” she goes on, ignoring Dean, “you had better get to that hospital. And I have a delivery to make.” With a tiny wave, Bela turns her back on them, climbing into her car and driving off into the night.

Sam fires up the Impala and follows.

  


Once Dave and Phil are safe in the hands of the county hospital, Sam and Dean head back to Lowes Inn. It’s so late it’s early, they’re both exhausted and they’re both pretty banged up. Out of habit, they manage to go through the motions of cleaning cuts and checking each other over for serious injury. Dean’s ankle is twisted pretty bad, but the most he needs is a couple days off it. Sam insists on taking a shower. He nearly orders Dean to take one, too — rolling around in a cocoon in a cell full of blood and entrails, gross — but his brother is, for lack of a better word, _done._

When he comes out of the bathroom, Dean is fast asleep on his stomach, stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers. He forgot to take his socks off, Sam notes affectionately. He looks younger like this — vulnerable.

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers, sitting on the other bed. He didn’t mean for his peace offering hunt to end up this way — didn’t mean for Dean to be hunted down and pinned, helpless, while—

 _No._ Sam drops his face into his hands, takes a deep breath, pushes hellhounds and demons and deals out of his mind. He won’t let it happen. He _won’t._ There has to be a way to save Dean from eternity in the Pit. He will not let the hellhounds drag Dean Downstairs.

He peeks through his fingers. “I won’t,” he promises his sleeping brother.

A few months to go; the clock is ticking.

 

~End.


End file.
